


Wear the Masks on Dionysia Day

by Simply8Steps



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Angst, Canon-typical Events, Crack, F/M, Gen, Gift Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 06:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11099037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simply8Steps/pseuds/Simply8Steps
Summary: This, in a way, also addresses the two very diverse depictions of Baltar as a character – the serious arbiter of great tragedy and the comic fool of a divine play.





	Wear the Masks on Dionysia Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icedteainthebag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icedteainthebag/gifts).



> Originally posted as a Holiday Exchange gift fic for icedteainthebag over at the Rememberlaura community. This was originally posted on 12/29/2010.

It is disconcerting to be drowning, a feeling he knows well beyond the watery depths of guilt. A situation where you are trapped in something so flimsy, so seemingly without will or direction and instead discover the strength of the current and the pressure and weight of the liquid. A close encounter during childhood in the river bordering his family’s farmlands had taught him that and fueled his desire, his want to know more. To _be_ more.  
  
From young boy to precocious youth to charming man, the transition was natural. He had wanted to believe himself strong enough to fight the current, the flow. In science, he learned all about the hydrogen bonds that tied water molecules together, and in his defense research (and of course - the other side of the same coin – his study in cybernetics and weapons development), he learned the power gained from breaking them, in manipulating the fabric of nature. Heat. _Energy._ Diamond edged lasers, separating elements, explosions that could create or destroy a universe (all theoretical of course), and if there was even any truth to divinity, he knew it was in his hands. This most basic manipulation, he thought, would be the greatest lesson he ever had to learn. Certainly, it gave him both fame and fortune. And pleasure.  
  
Then a blonde angel meandered into his vision, and the hand of _God_ (the ancients just gave the deity a split personality disorder apparently, and his angel held his chin painfully in an unforgiving grip - _blasphemy_ ) swept his vision clear. The flood came, and he had been powerless to stop it.  
  
He believes, he _believes_ if only because to not believe would be to welcome insanity and accept responsibility, but it is far too late. He is not God, and he has never felt more grateful for it.  
  
When he is pulled from the stream, the river churning around him, he gasps, spitting and coughing up water (and who knows what else). In the light of the sky, all he sees is his angel and eternal tormentor – all-knowing and outlined in light… and red?  
  
“Gaius.” Green eyes. That is not right. He is sure of it.  


* * *

  
Laura sighed as she dipped her hands into the warm sink water, never more grateful for the luck of those pilots on Galactica… Of course, it was still troubling considering _how_ they had ended up losing so much of their water resources in the first place.  
  
As she faced the mirror and considered this thought, she frowned. She was finding it more and more difficult to smile these days. Her skin was pale and dry from the lack of sleep, and when she wet her face with the handful of water, she has to stomp down on the urge to breathe it in. (She has remembered other moments where a similar desire has risen in her – at the fountains, in her shower – the lifting of her face to the droplets, the sink of her body into the comforting depths.)  
  
“Madame President?” The hatch opened, and she came face to face with the files in Billy’s hand. “Commander Adama has wired over some fuel reports, and he also said that he will be sending Lt. Gaeta over later to discuss the progress on the Cylon detector Baltar has been working on.”  
  
Her brow went up at that. “You mean he’s actually made some progress?”  
  
“Well, the Commander was pretty determined that with the lieutenant’s help, he should be speeding up.” She somehow doubted that the… rather odd scientist would be properly aided without medication. As if reading her expression, Billy’s face broke into a grin. “Maybe he’s been less… _cuckoo_ with some supervision?”  
  
Her own lips, unable to resist in the teasing, spread into a smile to match Billy’s own. Rising on her tiptoes to reach his ear, “It didn’t seem to make much of a difference when most other people were watching him… What do you think the lieutenant has to do in order to encourage his… attention?”  
  
Dropping down to the plating, she watched as her innuendo finally took hold, and poor Billy’s face flashed red. “M-ma’m… you don’t mean… Surely, I mean…”  
  
She laughs out loud then. “I’m just teasing, Billy.” She reaches up to straighten his paisley-patterned tie with a fond smile. “I wouldn’t know either way.”  
  
He just grins _that_ grin again, and it is bright enough, just natural enough to eclipse their coldly artificial environment.  
  
“So, is that all there is to the agenda for now?” She is already walking towards the Presidential office, thinking, ‘Not a chance.’  
  
“Actually, the Commander has also…” She allows his young, bright voice – still optimistic and enthusiastic despite circumstances wash over her like a fresh rain shower. It reminds her of time well-spent in cooling fountains and the lakes outside Caprica City, near the isolated and smaller Aegaen University within the Caprican university system. A cleansing of sort in this rather dark world.  
  
Re-energized, she turns to her still rambling aide and quietly giggles.  


* * *

  
When he is finally fully awake and aware later (worse than any hangover, even one due to rotgut), it is to see the President on the other side of his cell, wearing the same outfit. Her eyes are haunted, and he remembers his earlier belief in (and the draw of) her incorruptibility.  
  
She still looks so pristine. So cold, and those green eyes that, for a few moments, reminded him of fields, are now blank. Even the fire of her rage, her accusations, has banked. This time, it is the Admiral himself who stands behind her, his blue gaze hard, and he cowers back slightly into his cot.  
  
“We’re giving you your trial Dr. Baltar.” Her words are clipped, her body already straining to leave his vicinity. “You’ll have your judgment, and it’ll be as fair as it can be made.” The words ripped from her are a bittersweet victory. He is all too aware of exactly how much he is hated (the repeated assassination attempts on New Caprica notwithstanding). He stares at her silently, and those eyes look through him as if daring him to make a remark, and _his_ Six is suddenly back, over his shoulder, lips gliding against his ear, making him shudder.  
  
“Oh, Gaius, remember all those schoolteacher fantasies? Wouldn’t this look of hers be just perfect for one right now? You’re the naughty little boy who’s been caught tattle-telling on the human race, and she isn’t rewarding you or forgiving you is she? What, did you think she would _approve_ of you after all you _did_ for her people?”  
  
He ignores the… whatever she is (he had never quite settled that had he?). “What changed your mind?”  
  
“I only just made up my mind, though if you would like me to change it…” The threat is clear as she turns away to leave the cell, the marines repositioning themselves around her and his cell door.  
  
Unable to resist, his eyes drift down to her legs, and the Six giggles.  
  
“Don’t tell me, even now you _still_ want to frak her? Well, don’t think too loudly, or the Admiral…” Baltar’s eyes shot up to meet a fierce glare, “may just end your suffering now.”  


* * *

  
‘Vice-President.’ What the frak was he supposed to do? Smile, make friendly with the press, draw up a schedule for the women of the fleet. Of course, he could handle all of that, but… what was she talking about at the moment?  
  
“What, Madam President? Oh – I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”  
  
Roslin released a short huff of breath. “Oh dear, Gaius, I think you just made the President sigh in exhaustion.” The Six sitting on the Presidential desk did not help matter much as she bent forward towards him.  
  
“Dr. Baltar, I understand that you are still feeling out the position, as you so aptly pointed out in our discussion earlier… on your capabilities and how, as if you were being pushed and pulled around… like a plaything. However, you must realize…” If Baltar hadn’t known better, he would have thought that there was a note of sarcasm in her tone as she mentioned his capabilities, but that surely wasn’t it. After all, the President had always been professional, perhaps too much so. In fact, he bet he could have gotten her to relax herself a bit if he had a night with her...  
  
“Dr. Baltar!” Ah, yes, he should really try to pay attention, but his gaze couldn’t help but drift between the Six who continued to bend over him fingering his hair and ear and the President who was now staring at him over her glasses.  
  
“Yes, Gaius, you really should listen. Otherwise, she may grow impatient and just decide it would be better off to just airlock you altogether.”  
  
He swallowed, mouth dry, and thought maybe another break would be a good idea.  
  
“But really, Gaius, what sort of Vice President would that make you – if you can’t even make it through a single meeting without whining.” Her smile was predatory… almost malicious. “I think even her aide is watching you closely. Maybe we should play… give them a show?”  
  
Really now, he couldn’t even open his mouth to protest either women. Not with her lips meshed to his, and oh gods (“God, Gaius. Singular. Maybe you _should_ consider asking her for private lessons in grammar.”)…  
  
He never even has the chance to notice Billy’s head-slapping gesture when the young man sees the _Vice President_ ’s eyes glaze over.  


* * *

  
“I don’t like the way he looks at you.”  
  
Laura only quirks her brow at him. “Bill, I don’t think you like the way _anyone_ looks at me.”  
  
A huff that may be a laugh escapes over the rim of his glass, and she could swear that he is mumbling under his breath, “I’d rather not think of more people looking at you…”  
  
“Worried they may have me in the sight of their gun?”  
  
It is a tease that draws not a single blush from the veteran soldier. In most ways, Bill had become one of her closest confidants after Elosha… after Billy… However, he would never be Billy, the young boy who held her hand in sickbay with a smile on his face even as his world was crashing down again. (She can’t imagine telling Bill. Not at all, and she cannot imagine him smiling as she fades as much as the anguish that would ply and dig into the crags of his face.)  
  
“You sure it’s the right thing to let him go about this… circus show? As much as I’d hate to admit it, Zarek had that part right.”  
  
Laura stills, her eyes caught in the empty distance of the enclosed cabin. The stars drifting by Colonial One… How many were already dead? “I’m not… sure.” A sip. “I’m only as certain as I can make myself be. Additionally, it’d be lunacy for the panel to decide that he’s an innocent man by any stretch of the imagination…”  
  
“You’d be surprised… Justice is blind, and the public will be more so sometimes. There’s no predicting the perceptions of an individual or a group of individuals.”  
  
It is a worry she has had as well. As her eyes close and her head falls back against the seat, she still remembers, can still see the blond cylon model kissing Gaius Baltar the day of the attacks.

* * *

  
_Suicide is a sin. That is what the Cylons believe (and many Colonials as well). That was what Gina had told him as she had placed her gun in his hand and asked him to end her existence._  
  
_Now, the Six, the seductress and angel in his head was whispering encouragement in his ear. Well, he is not sure if it is supposed to be encouragement or another of her twisted, psychological mind games. Strange, how she was supposed to be a messenger of the one true ‘God’, and yet she was pushing him to do something he abhorred (never mind genocide)._  
  
_It is only when his legs dangle and he is fighting for every breath – up in the air hanging by the tendons and muscles of his neck, in a recess of bitterly, cold water flailing his arms to stay afloat moment to moment in that dark panic – that he knows that always, he’ll always want to live, and that isn’t a sin. Neither is love._  
  
“I’m sure I wouldn’t remember me either.”  
  
Now, he wonders if he, or many of the surviving Colonials will ever forget. How can they? His eyes follow her in the hustle and bustle of his… followers’ living quarters, already taking charge as if there were never any broken promises, or harsh trials, torture, mutiny, or… cancer. Death.  
  
His most distinct memories of his mother are from a distance in both dimensions of time and space – dark-haired, petite, and rough-skinned – wrangling him from the banks of the stream (from the river itself that day long ago) where he had his daydreams of grandeur, always lecturing him on his abandoned chores, his responsibilities and the matters at hand. The touch of fondness in her voice lit through though for her brilliant and creative little boy who eventually left home and didn’t, couldn’t look back.  
  
With these same distinct feelings of distance, he watches the President - the twist of her lips and tongue as she speaks into the microphone and the tempting lines of her blouse. She rescued them, as she’s trying to do again. Pulled them from the stream, and he finds himself wanting to know more and finding new lessons from the former schoolteacher. It is the kiss of a lifetime apparently.  
  
It is tiring to avoid looking back. (His father’s harsh cries and laughs served as proper evidence to that.) Beyond the waters, he sees her.  
  
Which “her” of the many? Well, that’s a question he can’t quite answer. Yet.

 

  
_**Fin.** _


End file.
